Though a huge part of our largely-silent, post-dating
acquaintanceship is based on the idea that neither of us have any
interest in the other — that whatever happened between us is something
entirely left in the past to wither and rot — I still think of you. I am
not sure if that makes me the weak one in the equation (though I’m
alright with it if I am), it’s just that the silence that is expected
after separations seems too simple and, to be honest, too cruel. It’s as
though a breakup of any kind means that whatever existed before is now
somehow erased from the mutual history of both partners, never to be
acknowledged again — and that just feels ridiculous.
And saying that I miss you wouldn’t quite be the right term, either,
though I know that admitting you still think of someone you used to love
immediately conjures up images of someone sitting alone in their room,
listening to Death Cab or something equally emotional, and crying. I’m
not crying. It’s just that, when I see photos of you or hear through the
grapevine of something that you’ve been up to, I wish that reaching out
to you wouldn’t be such an inappropriate step. In fact, it’s the whole
“this requires a long, drawn-out explanation of why we’re talking again”
thing that really confuses me — am I not allowed to ever consider your
existence again? In almost every other aspect of my life, keeping tabs
on things and remembering what was good is something to be praised,
something that makes you an adult. Somehow, this is the exception.
What have you been doing? Are you happy in your life? The things that
you always talked about doing as we lay together in bed, looking at the
ceiling in that kind of dreamy, half-asleep lull of honesty — are you
doing them? I want to know what you’ve been up to, I am genuinely
interested about the turns your life has taken and the people you are
now choosing to spend it with. Perhaps it would be inappropriate to ask,
but who are you dating now? Do you like her? Do you love her? I know it
must sound strange, but I have a hard time picturing even the concept
of love involving you and someone else. When you create such love with
someone, as you do in a relationship of a certain magnitude, the entire
word “love” seems to belong to you and you alone. If you have chosen to
share it with someone else, do you mean it?
Do you think about me? I know, it’s selfish, it’s childish. Nothing
screams “immaturity” like wanting to catch up with someone only to
shortly thereafter find out exactly what percentage of their life has to
do with you still, but I’m curious. As much as I genuinely find myself
thinking of what your life must consist of, it would be comforting to
think that you have the same moments of reflection about me. Tell me
that something as great as we were sort of echoes through the rest of
your life, occasionally tapping you on the shoulder to remind you of a
past that you so clearly left behind. Tell me, because the world would
seem a bit too cold if it didn’t.
I have thought so many times about the implications of contacting
you, of telling you simply that you’ve been on my mind, and waiting for
the repercussions to permeate through the twisted groups of our mutual
friends. It seems almost an exercise in masochism, the unbridled
exposure of one’s heart with the expectation that, at best, the other
won’t actively humiliate you. Don’t humiliate me. This isn’t some white
flag with the implication that “you won” some unspoken competition — I
would hope that our time spent apart has moved us past the petty
distinctions of “who is happy” and “who is sad.” I would hope that we
have both become happy enough in our own lives, and on our own terms,
that joy is not something that has to be divided up amongst us. I want
us to both be equally in love with our own chosen paths.
Yes, I am still curious. I wonder what has happened to you since I
last saw you, touched you, whispered something in your ear. I wish that
getting coffee and catching up like old friends was something acceptable
for the two of us to do, and not something that came with a million
implications about how desperate the initiating party must be. But, in
the interest of honesty, I do wonder. I guess I’d like to know
that your life has gone as well as I had once hoped it might, and that
what you have become is something that you can sit with at the end of
the day and be proud of. I knew you were meant for great things, and I
want you to achieve them (even if I may have experienced a moment or two
of selfish jealousy in the midst of our separation). You deserve so
many great things, not the least of which is my honesty.
I still think about you, do you think about me?
--- Charlotte Green
